


homecoming // homesick

by skatzaa



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: A mildly Force-sensitive!Liana Merian headcanon slipped in here somehow, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Movie: Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, Not Really Character Death, POV Outsider, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, and I'm not totally sure how because we know nothing about her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:39:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: Depa Billaba dies on Kaller, protecting her padawan.And then she wakes up in the Jedi High Council chamber, thirteen years earlier.
Relationships: Depa Billaba & Caleb Dume | Kanan Jarrus, Depa Billaba & Mace Windu, The Jedi Council - Relationship
Comments: 25
Kudos: 338
Collections: Jedi-Friendly, Past Imperfect Future Unknown 2019





	1. homecoming // homesick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sheliak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheliak/gifts).



> Hello! Sheliak, I hope you like this.
> 
> There seems to be some discontinuity with canon and whether Depa was still a master on the High Council at the time of Order 66, so I went with what I liked most for the story ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Depa knew even before Grey aimed that his shot would be the one that she couldn’t deflect. She could feel the certainty in the Force, the acknowledgement that her time had come. But still, she stole one final moment for herself: the sight of Caleb, safe, turning back to look at her, reaching out for her in the Force. She closed her mind tightly against him, so he would not have to _feel_ it.

Grey pulled the trigger.

The shot slammed into her exposed back. Pain seared through her, and Depa fell—

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

—to her knees.

She threw up a hand to brace her fall. Her palm impacted with the ground, but she didn’t encounter the dirt and brittle grass of their campground. Instead, she only felt cold stone, smooth against her fingers. She sucked in a breath, but there was no flare of pain from the wound to her back; no smoke from the campfire, no scent of charred flesh—from her wounds or the clones she had killed with her lightsaber. 

Her head jerked up, and she found herself—somehow, inexplicably—in the Jedi High Council chamber. 

_What?_

She hadn’t been here in person in nearly a year, not since she officially took Caleb as her padawan and stepped down from her council seat. The room was utterly unchanged: quiet, calm, the light of the setting sun gilding the duracrete with gold. She could see speeders in the far distance through the panoramic window, and closer, a Jedi starfighter taking off and veering toward atmo. It was only the Force that was wrong: not muddled with the Dark as it had become in the past months, but confused and opaque all the same. She strained against the feeling of it, the way it dulled her other senses like linen wrapped over her eyes—pushed against it again, and again. 

After a long moment, she gave up. No matter what she tried, she could not break through the chaotic mess of feelings to find clarity. 

Someone groaned and she jerked again, pulling herself away from the sound and reaching for her saber in the same motion. She didn’t know how she had come here, or why, but she would _not_ give in without a fight. 

When reason found her again, she was standing in the center of the council chamber, lightsaber ignited and held before her—

With Mace at the other end of it, sprawled on the floor with a forearm flung up in front of his face, as if still waiting for the blow to fall. 

_No._

Hands shaking, Depa disengaged the saber and clipped it back to her belt, then knelt by Mace’s side. None of this made any sense—how she could’ve possibly survived Grey’s shot, how she had ended up here on Coruscant without any memory of the journey—but this, at least, was familiar. Mace had been her touchstone for nearly as long as she had been alive, and that hadn’t changed just because she was sort-of-maybe-dead.

“Master?” she asked. Something in her felt as young and scared as she had on their first mission together. Mace lowered his hand, eyes cracking open to squint at her. “What just happened?”

Mace sighed, a sound that slid into a groan at the end, and pushed himself upright. Depa reached out a hand to steady him, and found that they were both trembling. 

He didn’t look at her again, left hand holding his right elbow so tightly she didn’t know how it couldn’t hurt. Then he said, “I don’t know, Depa. I can’t—” another sigh. “If this is some trick of Sidious’s...”

_Sidious?_

When it became clear that he wouldn’t say more, Depa reached out and grabbed hold of his free hand, gripping it tightly. “The Sith Lord? You’ve found him?”

Mace looked up from their clasped hands, eyes blazing. 

“Sidious is Chancellor Palpatine,” he said, with absolute conviction. “And he has some plan to destroy the Jedi and take over the Republic.” His grip on her hand tightened to the point of pain, but she didn’t flinch. “Depa—”

Another groan came from behind her and Depa _did_ flinch, still remembering that moment of clarity the Force had granted her, the absolute certainty that her death would come from behind, delivered by a man she trusted. Mace’s hand shot up as she lurched into him, trying desperately to escape whatever was behind them. He cupped the back of her head, fingers catching and pulling on her braids, and allowed her to rest her forehead against his. He held her there without speaking a word, until the shuddering stopped.

When she felt she had better control of herself, Depa checked over her shoulder and saw Saesee Tiin there, huddled just inside the doorway as if he had simply collapsed while entering the room. 

Her tunnel vision widened, and Depa realized that _all_ of the council was present, except—it was all _wrong._ Even Piell was here, though he had died around the same time she had taken on Caleb, and Eeth Koth, who had left the Order several months earlier. And there was Yarael Poof, who had died _years_ ago, so many years before even the first battle of Geonosis, his head swaying as he tried to orient himself.

Mace’s hand was still tangled in her hair, and when she turned to survey the room, strands were yanked out of her scalp making her eyes water. Mace pulled his hand away a heartbeat later, sensing that her need for comfort had subsided.

The only person who seemed unaffected, when her eyes finally landed on him, was Yoda. He was seated in his chair, hands braced on the gimer stick laid across his lap, and was watching them all with a sad droop to his ears.

“Master Yoda?” Depa asked. He raised his gaze to meet hers. “Do you understand what just happened?”

His ears drooped further.

“Traveled we have, I fear, through time itself,” he said. The Force rang with the truth of his words, and Depa swallowed down the instinct to shy away from it. “Returned, we have, to _before_ the Liberation of Naboo.”

The Liberation of Naboo? But that was _thirteen years ago._ Caleb—

Her heart sank. Her padawan hadn’t even been brought to the Jedi yet. She had grown so used to having his bright, inquisitive eyes turned up to stare at her, and now she was without him.

“Impossible!” That was Ki-Adi-Mundi, or she’d eat her tabards. So many of them had died, and here were now, alive, and still he rebelled against it. The man never could believe what was right in front of his nose. “How do you know it was not simply a vision? There is no precedent—”

“Search your feelings, Master Mundi,” Plo Koon said. He was seated upright, but only by the most generous definition of upright. There was a grief-stricken curl to his spine that Depa had never seen on the old master before. “I think you will find that, however implausible, Master Yoda speaks the truth.”

Adi Gallia was also upright, but only by virtue of the iron grip she had on the back of her chair. She said, “I’m not prone to visions. But the last thing I remember is the mission to Florrum—the Zabrak who attacked me—”

She stopped, and visibly took a moment to collect herself.

“I was on Kaller,” Depa offered, drawing the attention from her friend. “Caleb and I were meditating, and I felt…”

Death. So much death, as, across the galaxy, the men they had fought, bled, and died with for _years_ turned against them. _How_ could it have happened?

“Palpatine is the Sith lord we seek,” Mace interjected. Under the disbelieving eyes of the rest of the council, he levered himself upright and offered his hand to Depa, which she took. She smothered a wince at the pop in her knee.

 _“Emperor_ Palpatine, he styled himself,” Yoda said, “once destroyed, the Jedi were. Ordered it, he did. Survived, I did. Survived, many others did not.”

“Anakin Skywalker did.”

The words were quiet, but all eyes in the room flew to the speaker. 

Eeth Koth sat in his chair, shoulders hunched in on themselves. There was something dangerous about him, despite his vulnerable posture; something that curled, dark and sickly, around him in the Force. Depa opened herself up to the feeling, trying to understand, and recoiled from the _hatred-anger-fear-love-pain-horror-_ **_NO!_ ** she encountered.

“He survived, only to bring death to those who escaped the initial purge.” Eeth’s eyes were red rimmed, and he was still leaking ugly emotions into the Force. “He stole my _family—”_

“Attached, you are,” Yaddle said. Her voice was soft, sad, but she cut through his anger easily. “Abandoned our teachings, you have.”

Eeth scoffed, but there was no energy behind it now. “As though you have not done the same, Master Yaddle. You distanced yourself from this council long before I was _removed.”_

“A Jedi, I still am,” she said firmly. “A Jedi, you are _not,_ I think.”

He bristled. “If Master Yoda is correct, then we have an opportunity to _stop_ him from betraying us. This only proves that we should’ve never accepted him into the Order in the first place—”

“That’s what I’ve been saying—!”

“What makes you think that—”

“He’s a child!”

“The Dark side—”

 _“Palpatine_ was to blame—”

Yoda held up one clawed hand, and the councilors fell silent, eyeing one another warily. 

“Meditate on this, we must. Rush to a decision, we _cannot.”_

“I agree.” Mace stepped away from her, moving back toward his chair. Depa fought down the instantaneous urge to follow him like a youngling clinging to her creche master's robes, and instead retreated to her own seat. The rest of the council followed suit, returning themselves to some semblance of dignity. Mace continued, “Considering what we have all experienced, it would be foolish to jump the blaster before we understand more.”

The Force relaxed minutely as the Jedi accepted his words. Several started to rise from their chairs, but were halted by Plo’s voice. He had finally straightened from his slump and was regarding the room, inscrutable through his protective goggles. 

“I believe it is best to keep this information contained within this room for the time being.” His head tilted as he glanced around. “We do not wish to create any undue panic.”

“But how are we certain that we are the only ones to experience this _vision?”_ Ki-Adi asked, the word vision sounding as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. He always was too focused on the logical to accept the extraordinary.

“We don’t,” Even Piell said, voice as gentle as a hammer. He ignored the glare that Ki-Adi sent his way, his eye fixed on the great doors of the council chamber. “But unless we are to become paralyzed with indecision as we wait for someone else to appear with the information we are missing, we _must_ operate under the assumption that we are the only ones.”

Depa glanced around; caught Adi’s gaze as she did the same. Even was right, and anyone attuned to the Force knew it. 

Without another word, she stood from her chair and sat, legs crossed beneath her, hands resting on her thighs. It wasn’t particularly comfortable without a mat beneath her, but she had certainly dealt with worse. 

Depa closed her eyes as, around her, the others followed suit. She heard the rustling of robes, the soft exhales some made as they sat. Someone began murmuring under their breath; she extended her awareness slightly, and found that it was Yaddle, speaking softly to Yarael Poof. In all of the excitement, she had almost forgotten that, if he had knowledge of events only up to the point of his death, there would be much of what they discussed that he did not understand. 

The distinct tap of Yoda’s gimer stick never came, but she let that thought flow through her and then away as soon as it arrose.

It had been many years since she’d meditated in such a large group; her initiate days were the last she could remember of doing anything like this. It was, in a way, harder, because she had to release her own emotions _and_ resist the distraction of the others’ efforts. In the creche, group meditation was a tool masters used to teach patience and cooperation. By the time an initiate was chosen as a padawan, they had usually moved beyond the need for such practices.

But still, there was something soothing about the feeling of each Jedi around her calming themselves as they slipped into their meditations.

She sank into the Force, allowing its vast expanse to wash over her. She knew that everyone visualized the Force in different ways; Mace preferred to imagine a galaxy, where he was simply one star among trillions, and Yoda’s had something to do with the intricately interconnected ecosystem of a swamp. Caleb, she remembered with a pang that the Force quickly soothed, had not yet had time to perfect his own visualization technique.

But for Depa, the Force had always been an ocean, in which she could be an island rooted to one spot, or a boat set adrift, or a single woman diving beneath the waves. She sank into its currents, letting it flow through her as it willed.

Immediately, grief sunk its sharp claws into her. She fought against it blindly, not wanting to face what it meant, but the Force held her, gently, as a creche master might hold a youngling fighting against something that was in fact good for them, and she surrendered to it.

 _Caleb._

Depa had not expected losing him to hurt as much as it did, but the pain had torn her open and left her bared to the galaxy. She saw him again, standing on that ridge and watching her die. She hoped he had run, that, wherever he was—if her Caleb even existed, anymore—he was safe. There was nothing she could do now but move forward and hope that things would be better for everyone. 

The Force did not speak to her as it did to others, but she felt its warmth and approval as her grief subsided into something recognizable, manageable. It was not gone, but it would not overwhelm her, and she could return to it when the time was right. Depa set it aside and moved beyond it.

Unclouded by her pain, the Force settled around her and allowed her to better consider the matter at hand. 

There was much she did not understand; even now, after she had died and caught a glimpse of the moments before some of the others’ deaths, she knew she saw only the smallest corner of the big picture. But the longer she drifted, the more certain she became: no matter what else occurred, Anakin Skywalker was the linchpin. Yes, dealing with the Sith and the Separatists were critically important to the continued safety of the galaxy, but the fate of the Jedi Order had always laid at Anakin Skywalker’s feet, and it still did. 

Eeth was right, that Anakin had _(would?)_ do terrible things. But… 

Before any of that, they, the Jedi, had wronged him. And in the process, they had wronged the entire Order. They had mistreated a child because he was different, had not sought to understand him or the foundation upon which he stood, and it had spelled disaster. If anything was to change, she knew, it _had_ to center on Skywalker. Sidious, Dooku, Grievous, Ventress—they could all be dealt with when the time came. But Anakin Skywalker would take patience, and understanding, and all the things they had failed to provide him the first time.

Depa meditated, and understood what needed to be done.

It soon became apparent that not everyone agreed with her. 

Depa gritted her teeth as Ki-Adi-Mundi and Saesee Tiin argued a point around in circles, uncaring that it was the same point that Even Piell had only just abandoned. Contingency plans for Skywalker’s eventual, _inevitable_ Fall to the Dark; ideas for what they could do if his Fall took this path, or that one… Things that were _not_ certainties, things that would only _become_ certainties if the council insisted on treating him like a war criminal at nine years old. 

Finally, she could take no more.

“We are focusing on the wrong thing,” she snapped. Saesee subsided, but Ki-Adi slid his glare over to rest on her instead. “Whatever he did—or will do, that doesn’t change the fact that he is a _child_ who has done none of those things. We were ill-equipped to support him in the ways he, as a _newly freed slave,_ needed. Yes, he Fell, and that was a choice, but we also had a role to play in this, and the Force has provided us with an opportunity to learn from our mistakes.

 _“But,”_ she said, forestalling the eruption she sensed building in several masters. “That is also beside the point. Anakin is a child, and children can be manipulated or guided, depending on how they are treated. _Palpatine_ is about to manipulate his way into the highest office in the known galaxy.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as realization crept over them. 

“Before we attempt to address the issue of Palpatine, what would you suggest we do with the boy?”

Depa shifted to look her old master in the eye. He was relaxed, fingers steepled in front of his face as he leaned back in his chair.

She wasn’t often reminded that she was the youngest member of the council by a wide margin, but now, under the expectant stares of eleven beings with significantly more experience and wisdom than herself, she felt that margin.

All was as the Force willed it. She held that firmly in her mind, and took a deep breath.

“I believe that we made a mistake by allowing Obi-Wan Kenobi to take Anakin as a padawan immediately.” She tried to recall the way events had unspooled before her during her meditation. It had seemed much simpler with the Force guiding her thoughts. “Anakin is different, yes, but he should have been allowed time to learn among his peers as an initiate. He would have been given an opportunity to forge bonds with his fellow Jedi. Instead, we isolated him from the beginning, and made it worse by calling him the Chosen One.”

Ki-Adi-Mundi frowned at her. “Do you not think that his peers would ostracize him for being so far behind in his lessons?”

“If you truly believe that to be a concern,” Depa told him, meeting his eyes levelly, “then we have already failed as Jedi.”

Ki-Adi recoiled, and didn’t respond.

Depa looked back to Mace, with a brief glance spared for Yoda beside him. Yoda inclined his head in subtle encouragement. 

“Anakin should be allowed to be an initiate until _he_ feels ready to choose a master.” Another breath. If what she had already said wasn’t considered heresy, this certainly would be. Well, at least she could continue to live up to her reputation of being too _glib_ for a Jedi master. “And whoever he chooses will likely be required to utilize… unorthodox methods of training.”

Uproar.

“Unheard of—”

 _“Never_ should have considered—”

“There _is_ precedent—”

“The Code is very clear—”

Depa kept her chin raised under the onslaught, weathering the accusations and exclamations of support alike. 

“Enough.” Mace’s voice cut across the din, and Eeth and Yarael fell quiet mid word. “The Force showed this to you?”

“Yes, Master.” Breath. “We took a child newly freed from slavery, and asked him to call us _Master.”_

Silence.

Then, Yoda, with a twinkle in his eye: “Hmm, much to meditate on, given us, you have, Master Billaba. A good many points, you have made. But now, a Sith Lord, stop we must, from taking over the Senate, yes?”

Right.

Because it could not _reasonably_ be delayed and the vote, as Plo recalled thoughtfully, was not set to take place until the following day anyway, Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi were called before the Jedi High Council. After the mission debrief, the council allowed—some of them grudgingly—for Jinn to present the boy. 

After being exposed to her fellow councilors who had died some time ago, and now Qui-Gon Jinn, who was meant to die within a week, it was not so much of a shock to come face to face with Anakin Skywalker. 

There was still some bickering after he was tested, because that could not be avoided with a group as large and diverse in opinions as their own, but eventually it was decided that the boy would stay in the initiate dorms until there was time enough to discuss his path in earnest. Depa flashed a small smile at Anakin when he snuck a glance at her, and was gratified to receive an impish grin in return that reminded her both of the Knight that Anakin might someday grow to become, and of her own padawan.

Qui-Gon, full of far more self-righteousness than she remembered him being, bristled when they told him, quite firmly, that he would _not_ be taking the boy as his apprentice right that very instant. He bristled even further when Mace informed him that, should the queen of Naboo wish to return to her planet, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan would accompany her. And several council members, Mace and Plo included, would accompany _them._

Anakin himself looked, well. Confused and tired and cold, as she would expect of any young child taken from his world. She tried—and failed—not to imagine her Caleb after she died, alone on an unfamiliar planet, with the men he had called his friends hunting him down. What would happen to him now? Had his future been overwritten by their return to the past? Or was he still out there, alone and afraid, and her path had diverged from his forever? Even if they were someday reunited, it would never be exactly the same, and it pained her greatly despite her earlier meditation.

Faced with her sudden and inexplicable grief-fueled impatience, Qui-Gon submitted to their judgement. 

And after the council had dismissed the three, tasking Obi-Wan with escorting Anakin to the dorms, they soon dispersed to ready themselves for the Senate session.

If all went well, by this time tomorrow they would be one step closer to derailing the Sith’s plans. Something told Depa that it wouldn’t be that easy, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t _try,_ and keep trying until they had succeeded, or were dead—again.

In the end, it was all they could do.


	2. Extras: Qui-Gon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 | Qui-Gon Jinn vs the Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting with this chapter, these are all bits that I wrote from another person's perspective, or I couldn't quite fit into the main narrative. But I wrote them, and I figured that a little more time travel goodness couldn't hurt anyone. Sheliak (and others), I hope you enjoy!

**1 | Qui-Gon Jinn vs the Council**

Qui-Gon Jinn stood with his hands folded in the sleeves of his robe and stared at the closed door of the Council chamber, frowning. It was now hours after he and Obi-Wan were meant to debrief with the Council, and still they remained sequestered away. It had been so long, in fact, that he had been forced to leave in order to retrieve Ani from the Naboo Embassy, and still, the Council would not admit them. 

He reached out with his senses once more, but the chamber was too heavily insulated to allow him to penetrate it beyond the faintest impressions: frustration, fear, anger.

Just what in the galaxy were they _doing_ in there?

From his spot on the floor next to Ani, Obi-Wan glanced up at him. 

“Relax, Master—” he cut himself off quickly with a glance toward the boy at his side, but when Qui-Gon looked, Ani’s face was as impassive as could be expected from a nine year old with no Jedi training in an unfamiliar setting. “Isn’t patience a virtue in a Jedi, Qui-Gon? The Council will call us when they are ready.”

Qui-Gon did not _gape_ at his padawan, but it was a close thing. He couldn’t tell if he was more shocked at the dropping of formality, the _teasing_ from his normally quite serious padawan, or the way that little Ani was hiding a smile behind his hand.

Well. Qui-Gon would not dignify that with an answer.

It was just as well, because at that moment, the great doors to the chamber swung open. Obi-Wan and Ani scrambled to their feet, hastily adjusting robes and tunics, and Qui-Gon waited for them to finish before he strode forward into the room. Obi-Wan, as usual, fell in-step on his right, and he could sense his padawan directing Ani to stay beside them.

The second he crossed through the doorway, however, he hesitated. He had been right, earlier; the Force was heavy with the ghosts of fear and grief and anger that turned his stomach. He couldn’t imagine what must have happened here, for the traces to linger so strongly.

Qui-Gon took a deep, centering breath, and refocused his mind. Obi-Wan, ever attuned to his moods, had of course noticed the slip, but he hoped no one else had. With his shields fortified, he stepped into the center of the Council circle. And found all eyes focused not on him, but on Ani.

“More than a mission debriefing you have brought us, Master Jinn,” Yoda said, his gaze not straying from the child. It was not a question, and the mischievous amusement was directed toward Ani, not Qui-Gon.

What followed was perhaps the strangest mission debriefing Qui-Gon had ever experienced in all his years as a Jedi. He spoke of Naboo and the queen’s flight and their detour to Tatooine, but he found himself continuously stumbling over his words, mind too caught up in trying to decipher the strange feeling the Force was feeding him. Each time, Obi-Wan stepped in with a detail Qui-Gon had overlooked, or an exchange he had misremembered, and each time, he glanced at his master with something bordering on concern. 

But Qui-Gon couldn’t bring himself to care. The balance was all wrong here, and there was a tension between the masters that he had never before witnessed. As he spoke, the current of the room swayed first one way and then another, as though the council members were waging a war that he could not see or hope to understand. 

When he presented Ani to them, stating that he believed the boy should be trained, it was not Yoda, or Mace, or even Ki-Adi-Mundi who spoke. It was Depa Billaba, so newly added to the Council that her chair—previously held by the besalisk Plun Kil—had not yet been replaced, making it comically large for her slight frame. She was still and poised, every inch the dignified master despite her youth; light from a passing speeder flashed off of her Marks of Illumination.

“We will test the boy,” she said, and the balance of the room shifted once again, tilting in her favor. “If he passes, however, he will be allowed to enter the Order as an initiate, and he will have time to learn our ways before we ask him to choose a Jedi to learn under. Or indeed if he will stay with the Order.”

Each word was meticulously chosen; again, the avoidance of the word _master,_ the implication that they had guessed his true aim of taking Ani on as his apprentice, the outright declaration that they would allow what could very well be the prophesied Chosen One to just _leave._

Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak, but Depa was no longer looking at him. Instead, she focused her attention once more on Anakin, and everything about her softened. Qui-Gon closed his mouth and stepped back with Obi-Wan, leaving Anakin standing in the center of the room alone.

He stewed over the sting of being tacitly rebuked by a Jedi half his age as Depa talked Ani through what the tests would entail, with more patience than he would have expected of a Jedi who had yet to raise a padawan. 

Qui-Gon was well positioned to watch the images on the datapad change each time Ani guessed correctly. He stood, hands folded into his sleeves, as they completed the test and moved on to the next, which Depa also explained. Obi-Wan waited patiently at his side, occasionally throwing concerned glances in Qui-Gon’s direction that he ignored.

This was _not_ what he expected, and he floundered, trying to recover his equilibrium. The Force around the Council remained murky, subdued but impossible to interpret. Whatever was going on here, he didn’t appreciate being kept out of it.

In the end, the Council accepted Ani, as Qui-Gon knew they would. He did not appreciate being assigned babysitters for their potential return to Naboo, but Depa Billaba’s eyes burned into his back from where she was seated. Stalling for time, to determine the best way to change their minds about allowing him to take on Ani, he reached out with his senses—and screeched to a halt at what he found within her.

Pain. A pain and grief so overwhelming even to an outsider that he did not know how she was still upright, let alone cognizant enough to tell him off. 

The words dried to dust in his mouth, and he bowed to the chamber, his back still to Master Billaba. If she could hold that within herself and not Fall, or otherwise give in to her negative emotions, perhaps she _did_ deserve to sit on the council.

Qui-Gon motioned for padawan and initiate to follow him, and strode out as soon as he was dismissed. Ani quickly latched on to Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon allowed his padawan to go ahead without him. 

He frowned, and fixed his gaze on the closed doors of the council chamber. Something was wrong, and he would find out what it was.


	3. Extras: Liana Merian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 | Liana Merian and the Vote of No Confidence

**2 | Liana Merian and the Vote of No Confidence**

Among the senators who paid attention to such things, it caused a small commotion when someone noticed and remarked upon the fact that Jedi were in attendance for that day’s session. Across the Senate chamber, datapads pinged to life, and heads turned to seek out the Jedi. 

The Jedi had their own repulsorpod in acknowledgement of the Senate’s oversight of the Order, and could elect to speak during assembly as they desired, but they were not allowed a vote. It was no secret to those who cared to know that, while the Jedi Order’s repulsorpod was often occupied, it was rare that the Jedi sent to observe a session actually enjoyed themselves. 

Not that most senators enjoyed themselves either, if they were to be honest with themselves (which they usually tried to avoid).

Generally speaking, if there was more than one Jedi in their pod, it could be assumed that it was a class trip to learn about the Galactic Senate, with too many children crammed into the small space. They were disturbingly well-behaved, in most senators’ opinions, but at least it meant that they only stared with wide eyed solemnity, rather than throwing a tantrum and disturbing the proceedings.

Today, the presence of a Jedi caused the small commotion it did, not because it was a class of children, but because eleven fully grown adult Jedi—the phrase fully grown being, perhaps, misleading, as three of the Jedi were well below the average height for a humanoid and another had his tail so tightly coiled he could barely see over the top of the pod’s side—had crammed themselves into the pod. And they were waiting, utterly motionless in the uncanny way that Jedi had.

Word spread further, beyond those senators who made an effort to notice such things. It rippled across the tiers of the chamber, as more and more beings turned, lifting viewers to their eyes as they attempted to see for themselves.

Today was the day that the Senate was set to hold the Vote of No Confidence and, if it passed, elect a new Supreme Chancellor. So what did it mean that the Jedi were present in such force? Was it a sign that they supported the vote, or were they here to lend support to Chancellor Valorum? Theories sprang up and mutated into rumors nearly as quickly, spreading like a pandemic across the chamber as the senators waited for the Chancellor to arrive.

Through it all, the Jedi hardly moved.

And then someone—after the fact, it was unclear who it actually had been, though many tried to claim that it was in fact them—recognized them.

Standing in the back of her delegation’s repulsorpod, Senatorial Aide of the Alderaan Delegation, Liana Merian, checked her datapad and felt her eyebrows raise. She passed the pad over to her fellow aide, Stonroy, and waited for him to read what it said. He sucked in a sharp inhale just as Mas Ameda called the session to order, and leaned in closer.

“Think it’s true?” he asked under his breath.

Liana shrugged, though it was unbecoming of a Senatorial Aide. “I couldn’t say. But if the Jedi Council themselves _were_ to side against Naboo in the crisis…”

Well, it would have a lot of political ramifications, both good and bad. But mostly, it could mean that the Senator for Alderaan, Bail Antilles, would have a much better chance of winning the election. Ainlee Teem was competent, and not overly corrupt, but her connection with the Trade Federation would work against her. And, as much as the Senate might protest otherwise, the galaxy was still rather humanocentric; her status as a Gran and the representative of both Grans and Dugs would also be a point against her.

Behind them, someone coughed. Liana startled and turned, Stonroy’s hand at her elbow to steady her. 

The being standing there was unmistakably a Jedi; though there was no lightsaber visible, her robes were dark and simply cut, and two stones glinted on her forehead as she stepped closer. 

Liana had never met a Jedi before, but she hadn’t quite expected… _this._ The woman was slight and barely taller than Liana herself, but she was utterly still and composed, fully confident that the galaxy would proceed exactly as she expected it to. She was the very meaning of _power,_ and Liana didn’t know what to do.

The woman smiled at her and Stonroy, who was still holding her elbow. It was a gentle smile, and it made her face look kind. In a lilting voice, she said, “I am Jedi Master Depa Billaba. The council has asked me to join the Alderaanian delegation in a display of our support, if that is agreeable.”

Liana, words having abandoned her, simply turned to look at Senator Antilles. She could tell he was equally startled by Master Billaba’s appearance—perhaps more so, considering he didn’t have a network of gossiping aides to inform him of the rumors already surrounding the Jedi—but he also bore it with more grace, considering he had been in politics for as long as Liana had been alive.

“Of course, Master Billaba,” he said, making a sweeping bow in the manner of the old traditions. “We would be honored to have the support of the Jedi in this uncertain time.”

Liana’s eyebrows shot up when Master Billaba mirrored the bow perfectly, only modified in the ways that were exactly right for her rank and status as an honored outsider. _How_ could she know just how to hold her arms, how to tilt her hands and head as she ducked, exposing the braids pinned neatly to the back of her skull? The old bows were hardly ever used on _Alderaan,_ except for the most important of State occasions—were the Jedi truly so knowledgeable?

Master Billaba stepped forward to occupy the spot beside Senator Antilles, at his request, seemingly unruffled by Liana and Stonroy’s obvious amazement. Agrippa Alderete, at Senator Antilles’ other side, was as unaffected as the Jedi master, but Liana would, truthfully, expect nothing less of the oldest and most experienced member of the delegation.

Still feeling somewhat off-kilter, she turned her attention back to the Senate floor, where Mas Ameda was only now finishing the opening portions of the session. Then: “The Chair recognizes the Senator from the Glithnos system,” and the floor was officially open to representatives to make one final statement about the potential votes.

As dictated by tradition, the nominated senators would not speak on their behalf or against the current sitting Chancellor, but that did not mean their allies—or enemies—could not. Glithnos did not share a hyperspace lane with Alderaan, but they were neighbors nonetheless, and long allies. The Glithnos senator would speak on their behalf, and he did.

Glithnos was followed by the Trade Federation, who would never waste an opportunity to promote themselves and their own allies, even when it would not necessarily work to their advantage. 

Next was the senator for Anaxes, speaking on behalf of Chancellor Valorum, who could not be represented by his own sitting Senator, the representative of Coruscant. The Anaxian senator was eloquent on Valorum’s behalf, but Liana could read the currents of the Senate chamber well enough by now to know that he would not make a difference. The minds of the Senate had already been determined.

And on and on it went, as Mas Ameda recognized one system or sector after another, and they each gave impassioned speeches for or against whichever candidate they had set their attentions on. Liana could feel minor sways in general opinion as some of the more influential senators took the floor, but she wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

Senator Palpatine, it seemed, had many supporters, and he had the sympathy vote of the blockade, officially unconfirmed as it was. Liana was not certain that anything could occur to pull the majority’s support from the Naboo candidate.

But then:

“The Chair acknowledges the representatives from the Jedi Order.”

The entire chamber, attentions having drifted during the long litany of declarations, seemed to sharpen at once. All eyes were fixed on the Jedi’s pod as it detached from its mooring spot and came to rest level with the Chancellor’s spire. 

Out in the open, Liana realized that there wasn’t even a Senate Guard in the pod, either because there was no room, or no one thought that the Jedi needed one. 

A dark skinned human moved to the front of the pod, flanked by a non-human with some sort of breathing apparatus on one side, and a small green being that even Liana recognized as Master Yoda, the perpetual bane of the Senate in general, and Chancellor Valorum in particular. It was well known that the two were friendly, in the way a Jedi and a politician _could_ be friendly, and more than one holovid had appeared on the Senate’s internal holofeed of Master Yoda smacking the Chancellor on the shins with his walking stick.

“We thank you, Vice Chair,” the man said, his deep voice amplified throughout the chamber. Then he turned his attention to the chair beside Mas Ameda’s, bowed his head, and said, “And we thank you, Chancellor Valorum.”

Murmurs broke out across the Senate chamber as Valorum bowed back. He was not allowed, by law, to participate in today’s proceedings until his fate as Chancellor was decided, but that did not mean that he _wasn’t_ Chancellor any longer. The Jedi were the first delegation to acknowledge him in any way.

“And we thank you, honorable members of the Senate, for hearing us,” the man continued. “I am Mace Windu, Master of the Jedi Order.” Murmurs again, at the realization of just how important this man was. "The galaxy has experienced many years of peace under Chancellor Valorum’s guidance, but we also understand the desire for new leadership in uncertain times. While all of the nominated candidates are highly respected, both amongst yourselves and the Jedi Order, we feel that the best candidate for Chancellor at this time is Senator Antilles of the Alderaanian delegation.”

And with a final bow to the Chancellor’s spire, Master Windu pressed the button to return the pod to its mooring point.

That was it. No supporting statements, no attempts at logical or emotional sway. Nothing that could later be used as potential evidence that the Jedi had used their Force powers, whatever those actually were, to influence the Senate to their point of view. But still, she could _feel_ the way the Senate’s opinion had tilted in Alderaan’s favor.

Liana felt the hungry eyes of the Senate descend on the Alderaanian pod, where Master Billaba, still unmistakably a Jedi, stood beside Senator Antilles, her hands folded into the sleeves of her robe and her expression pleasantly distant. She made no move to acknowledge the weight of the Senate’s interest, though Senator Antilles did manage to keep his wits about him, and bowed in thanks in the direction of the Jedi Order’s repulsorpod. 

Her datapad dinged one—two—three—four— _five_ times in quick succession as the aides that Liana was familiar with bombarded her with messages, but she dared not take it out to address them, not with all eyes still focused on them.

There was something— _wrong,_ as Mas Ameda called the open floor to an end and explained the parameters of the vote. There was a creeping sense of cold engulfing the Senate chamber, and she saw the occupants of the pods around her sway or pale or have to sit down. Mas Ameda faltered mid-sentence. Liana herself had to grit her teeth against how lightheaded she had become, and it was only due to Stonroy’s hand around her waist that kept her upright.

And just as suddenly, the feeling was gone, and Liana was somehow on the floor of the repulsorpod, Stonroy and Master Billaba kneeling at her side. Stonroy was gripping her hand with his, eyes wide, while Master Dillaba had pressed her fingertips to Liana’s brow.

“Are you alright?” Master Billaba said, voice no longer lilting but low and dangerous. 

“Yes, Master Jedi.” Liana struggled up onto one elbow. “What was that?”

“Force influence,” Master Billaba said, brows still furrowed. She was regarding Liana with a strange look in her eye. “But the council should have it under control now. I only interfered here, because you seemed so strongly affected by it.”

And, when they had helped Liana to her feet, she did in fact find the Jedi’s pod once more in the center of the chamber, looking no worse for wear after dealing with… _whatever_ that was. 

Master Windu had stepped to the front of the pod once again. He, too, sounded troubled as he said, “My apologies, Chancellor, Vice Chair. We fear that there has been an attempt by a Dark Force user to influence the Senate’s vote, and acted to stop it. If there is any concern about Jedi interference in the Senate’s proceedings, we will withdraw before the vote.”

Mas Ameda turned to Chancellor Valorum and they conferred, though they both looked shaken. After a long moment, Mas Ameda returned to the Chair’s position and said, “The Chair recognizes the Jedi Order’s offer, and declines. We trust that you would not work against the Republic, to which you are so closely bound.”

Senators across the chamber roared to life at that moment, cries of support intermingling with calls for the Jedi to be removed. Mas Ameda tolerated it for only a moment before he said, “The Chair does _not_ recognize any of the Senators currently speaking. Order in the chamber, please.”

He waited until they had mostly quieted. “Now, we will return to the matter of the votes…”

Minutes later, Liana waited with baited breath as the votes began to pour in. She could not pull her eyes away from the holodisplay that showed how the votes were divided, just as Stonroy could not make himself look.

At the forty percent submission point, most had voted No Confidence in Valorum, and Senator Palpatine was the leading nominee, if only by a small fraction of the votes. The trend continued at fifty, and then sixty…

And then the current of the chamber changed; subtly, almost unnoticably, but change it did, the tide now approaching instead of retreating.

Liana watched, jaw slack, as the holodisplay totals climbed to seventy percent, eighty, ninety… 

“The Chair recognizes the new Chancellor of the Republic, Bail Antilles of Alderaan.” 

Chaos.

And Liana was in the middle of it, disbelieving, joyful tears on her face as she looked at her Senator and saw the dawning hope in his eyes.


	4. Extras: Meditation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 | Meditation

**3 | Meditation**

After the Senate session had ended in uproar, a vote, and further uproar, Depa returned to her quarters.

It was strange to move through the Temple as she once had; some recognized her, either as Mace Windu’s padawan or as a newly appointed council member, but most did not acknowledge her beyond a shallow incline of the head and, perhaps, a smile. Gone were the considering looks from the other masters, the distrust that followed in her wake after her loss to Grievous. The initiates who had passed their trials still eyed her hopefully, but Depa pretended not to notice, as she always had. She could not even begin to consider a padawan, not so soon after losing her first.

Except he wasn’t lost, she reminded herself as she reached to press the button on the turbolift. He had not even been surrendered to the Temple yet, if her understanding of his background was correct. If she and the council succeeded, they would save Caleb and every other Jedi and clone who would be so terribly affected by the war. 

She waited in silence for the turbolift to arrive at the correct floor, hands folded in her sleeves. 

There would be talk, if there wasn’t already, that the Jedi _had_ influenced the proceedings, that they had tricked the Senate into voting for their preferred candidate. And Senator Palpatine would be in the middle of it, though he would demur and state that he had every confidence in the Jedi and the Republic. There would be motions for another vote, this time without the Jedi in attendance. Calls for a judicial hearing, to determine whether the Jedi had used the Force.

Everyone had _felt_ the Darkness, but they didn’t know what it meant; many wouldn’t even know that it was distinguishable from the Light side of the Force, that it was the result of the Sith, rather than the Jedi themselves.

The doors to the turbolift opened, and Depa stepped out into the corridor. This close to the central spire, the corridors were busier, but still she felt no derision, or disgust, or pity from any of the Jedi she passed. If she had not already been convinced that this was the past, the lack of reaction to her failure would have changed her mind. 

She hesitated at the door to her quarters, the same set of rooms that she’d occupied since Mace had knighted her all those years ago. She hadn’t had the courage to stay there the night before, instead retreating to the familiar comfort of the Knights barracks. But it did not become a Jedi to give in to her fears, and so Depa palmed the door open, and stepped through.

It was exactly the same as she remembered. The plants were lush, obviously well cared for, and the faint trickle of the meditation pool filled the silence. Her mat was unrolled to one side of the pool, where she must’ve left it after her customary nightly meditation. It had been many years since she’d used the mat; sometime before the war, she had switched two meditation cushions, so that it would be more comfortable for Mace, who’s knees were already bothering him, when they would sit together as they once had. 

Depa stood in the doorway, frozen, because she had never expected to see this room again.

Once the war started, she had been at the Temple less and less, and often times, upon her return, had ended up sleeping in the Knights barracks when she was too tired after a mission to return to her own bed, as the barracks were closer to the hangars and always had open rooms.

And of course, this room had been destroyed in the attack against the Temple that had led to Depa choosing Caleb as her padawan. They had been assigned a shared master-padawan suite, but had hardly seen the inside of it throughout that entire year. 

With slow deliberateness, Depa took off her boots and spared a moment to line the heels up flush against the baseboard. She shed her outer robe and hung it on the peg by the door, though she would have to move it to the closet, later. Her lightsaber was removed from her belt and walked over to the low table by the window, where she left it on the stand Mace had gifted her with in the second year of her apprenticeship. She removed her belt and set it aside, though she knew that it would be an annoyance later, when she had to put it away properly.

The kitchen in her rooms was little more than a set of cupboards, a faucet, and a single heating element that she used exclusively for tea. She made her way there, outer tunics now hanging loose around her body, filled the tea kettle, and set it to heat.

While she waited for the kettle to boil, Depa moved to the ‘fresher and began to pull the pins from her hair. Eyes unfocused, her fingers sought out her braids and unwound them, letting her hair cascade over her shoulders.

Finally, when she could delay no longer, Depa met her eyes in the mirror.

The woman staring back at her was younger than she had any right to be, when Depa’s soul felt old and worn down from years of suffering and war. The creases that had lined her eyes and her mouth were mere shadows of what she remembered, and her hair had no gray in it when she checked.

She _was_ young, and the reminder of her circumstance punched through her once more.

When she emerged from the ‘fresher, face washed and patted dry, again she hesitated. She had no padawan to care for, no resupplying forms to complete, no upcoming campaigns to review. Her rooms were quiet and still and peaceful, the running water the only thing to break the silence.

After the chaos of war, it felt like a tomb. 

She made tea, but the mugs weren’t where she remembered storing them last and she had to dig to find them. The sugar was real, not the synth stuff she’d gotten used to using aboard the _Messenger,_ which meant she put in too much and had to start over again. The tea, at least, was what she was used to; better, in fact, because there were varieties here that she hadn’t tasted in years, too busy with the war to track them down in the markets on the lower levels. She picked the type that she generally preferred to drink while reviewing council reports, especially when she and Obi-Wan—

She froze, mid-pour, as she remembered the sight of Obi-Wan in the council chambers the day before, looking young and guarded, braid trailing down to rest on his robes. He was no longer the self-assured master she had grown so fond of, but a padawan, whose only experiences with Master Billaba were the advanced Soresu clinics she had taught as a young knight to intermediate level padawans. 

Another connection lost that she didn’t know if she would ever recover.

Depa turned the heating element off and set the tea aside. She needed meditation more than she needed tea. 

It took only a moment to cross the room and lower herself to sit cross-legged on the meditation mat. Depa placed her hands on her knees and focused on the surface of the pond, the cadence of her breathing. She let the gentle ripples sooth her anxieties, and attempted to count each individual petal on the blooming lilies. 

She fell into the meditation easily, the Force washing over her as waves lapped against a lake’s shores. Her emotions were chaotic, jumbled, and she began to untangle them with the same patience that had made her the youngest master on the High Council. It would take time, but she had all the time in the galaxy, now. 

Depa drifted for untold minutes, sinking deeper and deeper into the Force. The surface of her emotions had stilled, for the time being, but she knew, with the bone deep certainty that came with communing with the Force, that she had to address the underlying problems. And so, she continued down.

Depa opened her eyes and went very, very still.

She was as she had been before—hair and tunics loose, feet bare, lightsaber missing—but she was no longer in her rooms in the Temple. In fact, she was nowhere that she recognized. It was obviously a cargo ship of some kind, the durasteel dented and blaster-scorched, and cold against her feet. The only thing in the otherwise bare room was a bunk set low against the wall opposite the door. The bunk was a mess of blankets, and had obviously been abandoned in haste some time before. 

She stood in the middle of the room, unsure. Had she fallen back in time once more? 

But if she had, shouldn’t she recognize this place? There was no Jedi literature on time travel—Plo, who was the most discreet member of the council, had been chosen to check with Master Nu about that, and she had confirmed the council’s suspicions—but should it not remain consistent nevertheless? Should she not be somewhere in her own past, rather than—wherever she was?

The door whooshed open behind her, and Depa spun around.

The young man’s hand was on his blaster before she even had a chance to raise her palms in a gesture of peace—and then he stopped, eyes wide in his pallid face. His long hair hung loose and lank, and his cheeks were concave in a way that hinted at long stretches of time with too little food. There was something familiar about him—it was the eyes, a shade that fell between blue and green and defied description.

“Master Billaba?” the young man asked, voice cracking on the fourth syllable. He sounded very young, and tired, and afraid.

And now, she recognized him.

“Caleb?”

Depa took a half step forward, hand reaching out to touch her padawan. He shied back, hand still on the grip of his blaster.

She stopped and moved away from him, looking behind herself to make sure she wouldn’t catch her feet on anything.

“This isn’t real.” Depa glanced up sharply at him, but Caleb was muttering to himself and pacing, one hand still on his blaster, the other pulling on his hair. “Get it together, Jarrus. You've got a job to do. There’s no _time_ for your stupid hallucinations.”

Depa watched him for a moment longer, but he didn’t seem to be inclined to stop any time soon, and so she lowered herself to the ground. He swung around to face her, blaster drawn with Jedi quick reflexes, but stopped when he saw that she was only sitting in her preferred meditative position, legs crossed, hands on her thighs.

“Sit with me,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument. 

Caleb sat across from her, sullen in a way she had never seen him. They stared at each other, until Depa gave into temptation and said, “Caleb—”

“That’s not my _name,”_ he snarled, and Depa lifted one hand in apology.

“Then what should I call you?”

“Kanan.” He looked away from her, jaw clenching, eyes squeezing shut. “Why won’t you just leave me _alone.”_

Depa swallowed her heartbreak so that it stayed hidden deep within her. Ca—Kanan did not need it in addition to his own. There was only one thing to ask.

“How long has it been?”

A derisive snort. “Few years. And before you ask, you _don’t_ want to know what I’ve been up to.” Then, derisive, under his breath: "You never do."

She reached out to him in the Force to offer reassurance, but whatever this experience was—vision, hallucination, dream—did not allow her that kindness. But she didn’t need the Force to know that Kanan thought she would be ashamed of him, disappointed in what he had become. 

“I am sure you’ve done what you must to survive,” she told him. His head jerked up in surprise, and he actually met her eyes. “I find no shame in that.”

“What–? You _never_ say that.” His eyes were getting wider with mounting panic. “What _are_ you?”

Depa shrugged, palms held out in confession. “I was asking myself the same thing about you, padawan mine.” 

She leaned forward and took one of his hands, holding it with as much gentleness as she could muster. If he wanted to free himself, it would take no effort. But instead, Kanan closed his eyes, and she watched as a tear slipped down one cheek. 

“Kanan, I tell you this in all honesty, and with no intentions of deception. I only wish to tell you the truth.” A breath to center herself. “I am currently meditating in my chambers in the Jedi Temple, thirteen years before my death.” Kanan flinched, and she squeezed his hand apologetically. “Master Yoda believes the Force allowed the council to travel to the past, but I am not so certain. I know not whether you are merely a vision the Force has granted me, to help me process what has happened, or if this is some connection between universes that has allowed me to tell you that I have returned to the start, and I will _fix things_ if it is the last thing I do.”

Kanan whimpered and pressed his free hand to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to stop other sounds from emerging. She ached to see him in such pain, but at least she could do something about _this._

Depa tugged lightly on his hand and said, “Come here, dear one.”

And Kanan was clambering into her lap like a youngling, gangly limbs tucked in tightly so that he would fit, and she held him, pouring all of the fierce love in her heart, the love that the Order would have her acknowledge and let go of, into the Force, in the hopes that _somehow,_ Kanan would feel it and understand. He shuddered against her, no longer fighting the tears, and she could do nothing but hold him close to her and wait this out. 

Eventually, his sobs subsided, but neither made a move to separate. Depa found herself giggling somewhat hysterically, and said, by way of explanation, “You’ve grown so much. I’m sorry to have missed it.”

Kanan harrumphed and pulled away enough to look at her, expression one of wry amusement. 

“It was impossible to keep a pair of pants long enough for more than a week, for a while there.” His face softened. “You _can_ see it though. If the council fixes things, you can be my master like you were _meant_ to be.”

Depa smoothed his hair back. “If won’t be the same.”

“No,” he admitted, and started to pull away. She let him. “But it’ll be enough.”

They smiled at each other, and she marveled at the change in her padawan, even in such a short time. The boy she had known hadn’t been lost entirely to hardship, and it gladdened her to see it.

“Kanan—”

“You can call me Caleb, Master,” he interrupted. She reached out to touch his face lightly in thanks.

“Caleb, I—”

Depa was yanked out of her meditation so quickly it left her nauseous. She opened her eyes and came face-to-face with Mace, his hands still gripping her shoulders tightly. 

“Mace, what—”

His face softened, and he released her. Depa felt her shoulders hunching inward, the loss of Caleb’s presence acutely painful. Mace said, “You were so deep in the Force that I couldn’t reach you. What were you _thinking,_ Depa?”

There was a thread of true fear in his voice, and she reached out a hand to sooth him, an echo of holding Caleb’s hand only minutes before.

“The Force granted me a—vision. Or perhaps it was a hallucination, I don’t know.” Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t have the energy to fight them. “I saw Caleb, years older than he was as my apprentice. I _talked_ to him, Mace.”

He regarded her, and she knew that he was considering the possibility that she had cracked, that this was only a continuation of her decline after the decimation of her battalion. But she needed him to _understand._ This would not break her. 

“I’m _relieved,”_ Depa said, with so much ferocity that he drew back slightly. “He survived. If he survived the clones’ betrayal, I have no doubt that he will make it through anything else he has to face.” She smiled, tear tracks sticky on her cheeks. “I can move forward confidently, knowing that I did not abandon him to a terrible death alone.”

And the Force—if that was truly what had granted her a moment with her padawan—had recognized that, and provided.

Mace considered her for a moment longer, before giving her a shallow nod. 

“If you’re certain.” He stood and reached out a hand to her, which she accepted. “Now, I find myself in need of a sparring partner. Interested in going a few rounds?”

“You’re on,” Depa said. She retrieved her belt and her ‘saber, and dumped the now-cold cup of tea down the drain. 

She could not change the past as it was for Caleb. But she could change their future. And she would. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on the extras! I do hope you enjoyed these, if you chose to read them in addition to the main story. Sheliak, I know they've drifted a bit away from your original prompts, which is part of the reason why I put them in their own chapters. Regardless, I hope they've added something to this experience, if you've gotten this far.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! I always say that I want to continue things like this, and then hardly ever do. If I ever manage to write more of this particular verse, I may post them, so keep an eye out if you're interested in such things.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
